


Turn Down These Voices Inside My Head

by miecroft



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Just sad shit, M/M, Mentions of Sex, Pining, Unrequited, basically just sadness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 01:29:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1180290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miecroft/pseuds/miecroft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>I often talk to myself when I’m alone.</i><br/>He does. He always does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turn Down These Voices Inside My Head

He can’t quite figure out where John’s chair goes.

_Silence. Nothing out of the ordinary. I look at the chair at it says nothing._

He paces the flat, tightly stitched socks sliding across the carpet.

_Normal Saturday night; consisting of some Thai leftovers in the fridge and maybe getting around to dissecting that big toe._

Silence. Nothing out of the ordinary.

_I often talk to myself when I’m alone._

He does. He always does.

* * *

The flat is far from silent. He plays some odd tune on his violin that he can’t quite remember fully. Not normal. But normal since John’s been gone.

Sherlock can’t tell whether it’s quiet or not anymore. The flat has been a void in his head for quite some time; even if the streets are erupting with cheers and sirens he does not notice, he drowns it all out. He can’t hear his own voice anymore.

_Why is it so quiet? Why does everything have to be so silent?_

It is a question he has asked many times to no avail. He is half-expecting John to barge through the door and complain about her again, sputtering off about a fight they’ve had over furniture for the new room or what color the new wood crib should be. Sherlock will just shrug it off and provide the perfect answer, as always, and John will utter a simple “that’s good” instead of the usual “brilliant!” or “extraordinary”. _He saves all of those for her._

But John doesn’t. Not tonight. Mary invited him over for dinner last night, he was charming and gossipy with her as always. _I don’t hate her._

He doesn’t, unfortunately, and he knows why. _She makes him happy_. But he wishes John still did.

* * *

_He calls me at exactly 2:03 am._

John sits in his flat, drinking tea and reading a book.

_I didn’t give him permission, he just barges through the door and ends the call, putting his phone in his pocket._

He chats with Mary about work. There was a patient who came in complaining of respiratory problems and the consensus was that she had asthma. Boring day. Nothing out of the ordinary.

_He doesn’t say anything. I think I do, but none of the words spill out and instead they remain inside my head, floating through my ears. Silence._

They go to bed and watch a couple episodes of Mad Men before she falls asleep. He keeps watching and glances at his phone on the bedside table, reaching his hand out to hover over it.

 _I can’t feel anything a centimetre before he touches me, but I feel like someone has punched me in the stomach when he grabs my hair, pulls me in and kisses me, hard. He traces his other hand across my spine-_ thoracic, lumbar, down to the sacrum _\- Silence becomes everything; I can hear the sound of his jumper coming off, his heartbeat merging with mine, the horns blaring in the streets. I can hear my head tilt back and he pulls away and moves lower down, I can hear him chuckle with relief because_ finally _. Finally._

He picks up the phone.

* * *

Sherlock opens the door and says nothing as John comes in mumbling about his day and asking to watch a movie. Sherlock can’t hear himself say “sure”, but John does and turns on the telly to see what’s on. Sherlock takes a minute and then slams the door shut, scuffling his bare along the ground and plopping down in his chair.

“Why did you move my chair next to yours?” John asks. _I wanted you close to me._ He gulps and replies, “It was blocking my view to the kitchen”.

They end up watching Little Miss Sunshine because John says it’s one of Mary’s favorites, and Sherlock doesn’t protest. John starts to fall asleep on his chair and Sherlock pulls out his violin, playing something he composed a while ago. _It isn’t your first dance. It was supposed to be ours. It’s better._ Sherlock covers him with a blanket and walks into his bedroom, glancing back at the faint smile that covers John’s face. _Goodnight_.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson got him a dartboard a few weeks ago so he wouldn’t shoot the wall any longer, and it seems to be working. He hates that it does. _Twice_. He hits the exact middle. _Make him beg. Twice._

The dart that is clasped in his hand is a gun; his heart is the middle. _I am good at darts_. So is she.

He doesn’t want to admit to himself that although Mary has won at darts so many times, once literally, but he finds that he thinks about it too often. He thinks about the fact that _no matter how many times she wins, I will always lose. He will always give in, and I will always lose_. He imagines his heart stopping right there and his body pounding the floor with a silent thud. She will cry, John will cry. Buckets and buckets. And that’s the only comfort he has.

* * *

 _She never questions_. For all her paranoia and fear of losing John, she wholeheartedly trusts him not to be unfaithful. _I hate it_. And she’s right. John would never betray his family, especially with their baby on the way. So many lies, so many acts of passion to keep him in her palm, and he won’t escape, he chooses to stay trapped in this doomed relationship . He is in denial about his future. _I hate it._

_But he comes to me anyways. He takes me against the wall of his old bedroom, groaning and thrusting while pulling at my hair and chanting “mine” over and over._

He stays at home and throws back a scotch with Greg. _He made me beg for mercy. Twice._ He asks Greg the same question about Sherlock twice: “Is he using?”. Greg merely shrugs and mumbles something about Molly keeping track of him. John looks down for a moment and then they sit in silence for five minutes.  _He is asleep now and I can hear everything._

They both fall asleep at the same time, on opposite sides of different beds. Sherlock faces towards John; John faces upwards.

* * *

 _I do not just store things in my mind palace. I create._ He creates alternate realities, possible conclusions that used to make sense. Now they just skitter off into theories that he refuses to acknowledge are near-absurd. _I create more things alone than I do with anyone else._ He loves the feeling of power, of using his mind for something more than the probable. But it is not him. And it comes with a price: being alone.

 _I open a book about astronomy that John gave me for Christmas and the words fall off the page, onto the floor, drowning me in letters and my suit does not get wet while I swim in a pool of useless knowledge_. He has only opened the book once, it says “Happy birthday, you utter arsehole” on the front cover. He opens it a second time, running his fingers over the scrawled words and grins to himself. _I laugh and laugh, more than that time Mummy put Mycroft in a pirate hat and forced him to play with me_. Sherlock puts it back on the shelf, gingerly lingering his touch before settling it back into place. _Redbeard is next to me. He wags his tail._

  
 _I am swimming. I am free. I am not lonely. I am happy_. It takes him a couple minutes to hear the miffed knocks and he turns around sluggishly before opening the door.

Mrs. Hudson comes in with tea and biscuits and Sherlock sits with her for a few minutes while she babbles about the news and she thanks him for being so polite and says, “I’ll leave you alone to your experiments now”. When she walks out he looks longingly at the shut door and a small part of him wishes that she would come back. _I work best alone._

It’s a lie, and he can’t even convince himself this time.

* * *

Sherlock puts the skull in John’s chair and talks to it quite often. “Stabbed right in the arse, they found out. I’ve never seen such mediocre attempts at escape.” He’s told the story many times over, but almost always fails to realize it until he’s finished. _He’s laughing_. “But you never listen to me, do you? You’re right there and you’re looking straight at me, but you never pay attention.” _He always does._ “How can you look someone in the eye and not listen to what they have to say?”

He can’t hear anything from the skull although he is looking right at it. _It melts on the chair into a white puddle, and it turns rock hard into silver. I kneel down and push some into my palm, but it falls right through my fingertips and soaks deep into the carpet, gone forever. I stare back at the perfectly polish mantle it used to reside on._ “It’s a metaphor, isn’t it?” he asks, laughing. “I hate those.”

No one can hear him. _I’m in denial_. No one heard him except John. _I told him, didn’t I?_ But John would not listen to him anymore, he would not hear of Sherlock’s trivial emotions that he has always pushed aside and criticized. “But you’re Sherlock Holmes,” John would say to him. _Exactly_. Exactly.

 _I am more than a emotionless, regretful sociopath._ One-third of that is a lie, and he refuses to address the rest. It is the first time he has felt loss, pure pain, in a long while. But he bears it anyway, all for John. For his vows that he would die to protect; for John’s happiness. _It’s all I want in the world_. It’s half a lie.

_I am never concerned with my own happiness._

As much as others admit that he is a selfish bastard, and his own reluctant acceptance of that fact, he holds others’ emotions above his own.

 _I don’t need to be happy_. No one does. _I just need to know myself_. At this point, he is not sure that he entirely does.

* * *

 _John lies next to me in bed, twirling my hair around his fingertip and stroking my scar with the other. He mouths the words “I love you”, but I cannot hear them._ He hears everything else: shouts from street vendors, cabs honking at other cabs, the bird chirping outside his window. _It’s the only thing I can’t imagine._ He can create whole fairytales inside his head, but this is the only illogical scene he cannot portray. B _ecause it is the one thing that seems entirely impossible._

He begs that he’s not correct. For once in his life, he pleads that he is wrong.

* * *

Molly knows. She invites herself over for tea and he does not protest over the phone, so she comes with a movie as well. “Let’s talk,” she says, obviously exasperated, as she waltzes through the door.

“Talking,” he retaliates, shutting the door behind her. “Boring. Repetitive. Useless.”

“Oh, talking can do anything.” She puts the kettle down on the stove and turns it on, whistling. “It can solve almost all your problems.”

“What problems?” He snarles, acting a tiny bit offended at her insinuation. _I don’t need her help._

She scoffs, grinning with disbelief. “And, here we go again. You’re never going to solve any of your problems if you don’t admit that they exist. Every time this happens with you. It happened last time, thank God John found you in that fucking drug den-”

“Let’s not,” he replies. “We can talk about my other.... ‘problems’ or whatever you want to call them. If they do in fact exist.”

Molly sits down across from him and puts her hand on top of his. “As soon as you realise that your feelings are not a problem, you’ll find that it’ll be a lot easier to solve your real problems.”

 _They are real problems. I’m not supposed to feel this way._ “Yes, they are. And you know I'm right.” _They always are._

She says nothing because he is right. Sherlock is always right. Her fingers tap dance across the top of the table and she looked into his eyes, her structured face melting into a sympathetic expression. “I know,” she whispers, “but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to help you. You need someone, Sherlock. Now that...”

  
“I know.” John’s gone.

  
“Have you said it out loud?” _God, she can read me like a book. Am I really so obvious?_

  
Sherlock murmurs something she can’t hear too well. “I’m sorry?”

He gazes down at her hand and puts his on it. His eyes flick up to hers and he says in the quietest voice he can without whispering, “I am in love with John Watson.” _I always have been._

Molly gives him the tiniest smile and squeezes his hand hard. “Okay. And how do you feel about that?”

His expression sinks and he folds his right arm in, ruffling his hair with the other. “Guilty”.

“And why is that?” She knows. Of course she does. But she needs to hear it anyways, to assure herself that it’s not possibly that bad.

Sherlock takes a deep breath. “I have done... so much to cause pain to John Watson. I put him in danger, I put his _happiness_ in danger. But he enjoys it. I lived with the guilt of hurting him knowing that above all, he appreciated it. But this?” He chuckles. “This... would tear him apart. Sentiment is something that I keep to myself because I will _lose_ if I let it control me. He has never seen Sherlock Holmes have much emotion at all. I would hurt him because it will change everything he has ever thought about me; the image that he has of me will be shattered. He has a wife. And a baby on the way. I don’t want to take away the life he always wanted by presenting myself as something different.”

 _I am in love with John Watson._ “I never know what to say after these kinds of things,” She replies, chuckling nervously. “But you do know what I can tell you?”

“What’s that?”

“Tea always helps.”

“How about Cluedo too?” He smiles weakly.

“Even better.”

* * *

John once got the song “I Can’t Make You Love Me” stuck in his head when Mary introduced it to him. He would whistle it around the flat when he came over, and Sherlock would act vexed about it and complain, but he finds himself whistling it more and more often when John’s not around.

* * *

_John comes home to a candlelit table and me playing the violin while humming along. “What’s this?” He asks, grinning._

_I put down the violin and clasp my hands behind my back, walking towards him. “Just a surprise. Because I love you”._ He can finally hear himself say the words.

_John smiles, pulling out a chair and sitting down as I hop into the kitchen and pull out a piping hot chicken from the oven. “That looks ridiculously delicious,” he exclaims while picking up his knife and fork._

_“I do hope so. I spent far too much time on this.”_

_“Well, I for one think it’s fantastic. Thank you, I needed this.”_

_I smile, widely. Genuinely. “Me too.”_

_“I love you, you know. I know that you don’t believe me.” John looks at me intensely, his eyes practically boring into my skull._

_I nod. “I love you too.”_

_“Sherlock.”_

In reality, Sherlock uses the key to their flat and brings over a home-cooked meal, leaving a note on the table that says, “I wanted to surprise you, in return for dinner last weekend. I love you both, have a great evening.”

He hopes she will realise that it does not include her.

* * *

He once said, “John Watson, you keep me right.”

John seems to have forgotten and left him to be wrong.

* * *

Molly visits him every day, taking him out of the flat to grab lunch or to go shopping. She is a fulfilling presence, and although she is not even close to John, he appreciates her companionship and finds his spirits lifting just a bit. She makes him laugh and doesn’t find spending time with him a chore.

They don’t speak of that night until a couple weeks after, when they are settled in a small cafe and Sherlock munches on some egg sandwiches. “How are you feeling?”

He glances up at her and shrugs, taking a small bite of his sandwich and setting it down. “I don’t know, frankly. That’s a first.”

“Are you okay?” She cranes her neck to look at him. _Fuck._

“I don’t know.”

“That’s a ‘no’. I can tell. Don’t try and lie to me.” She’s always right.

“What am I supposed to do about it?” He hates saying the hard truth out loud. It feels like his throat is slowly being singed when he speaks. “Yes, I’m- I’m sad. And I can’t do anything about it.”

“Talk about it?” A faint glimmer of pity always glows in her eyes even though she tries so hard to hide it.

“What is there to talk about?” He nearly whispered. “That I have feelings for my best friend, who is married and has a baby on the way?”

She says nothing.

“Who is convinced that his best friend is a completely emotionless machine?”

Molly looks down. _I’m sorry._ “Sherlock-”

“Let’s just eat... alright? Please.”

She nods and they sit in silence for a while. “Can I just say one thing?”

“Fine.”

“I know that this is a different situation and that there are completely different circumstances, but... when I liked you, although it took a while to fully absorb the fact that you didn’t feel the same way, I came out of it for the better.” She bit her lip.

 _I can’t think of one thing to say_. She cleared her throat. “But it doesn’t matter. Because even if it never works out, It always happens. To everyone. Even if your situation might be more uncomfortable and difficult, know that you’re not alone.” She squeezes his hand and he holds on for a while.

“Thank you. I needed that.” He straightens his back and fixes his collar. _Thank you._

“You’re always welcome.”

* * *

Sherlock dances alone in his flat. _John laughs as I whisper a joke into his ear and he just holds me closer, nuzzling his face in my neck. I hold onto his waist because I’m so afraid that he’ll slip through my fingers. “Not so tight, love. I’m here.” But I don’t loosen my grip and he doesn’t care._

He cleared a space in the main room, but leaves John’s chair where it normally is. Smiling to himself, he starts playing “What a Wonderful World” even though he hates it because _it’s one of John’s favorites. My feet scuttle across the wood and I don't hear it, I just hears John’s infectious laugh, his heartbeat on top of mine, the way he giggles when I dip and kiss him. We’re dancing on air and I can’t hear anything except his motions, the sound of his voice._

A hole is ripping through his heart at the very moment as he begins to realise that _my dreams cannot substitute my reality_ and that _this is a coping mechanism_. He attempts to shrug it off and continue dancing with his ghost, but he closes his eyes for a millisecond and when he opens them, the image is gone and he is holding onto nothing at all except his last shreds of hope. Lowering his arms, he shuts off the speaker that is playing next to him.

Then it suddenly hits him, slapping his imagination into the wall and he starts to cry, silently. He can feel how loud it really is, uncontrollable wailing that can probably be heard downstairs and he sinks down to the floor in defeat, but he cannot hear it. He can only hear the sound of his voice whispering, “Stupid, bloody stupid...” and imagines burying his face in anything but his knees: Redbeard’s fur, Molly’s coat, but he can’t imagine burying it in John’s neck.

 _None of it’s real. None of it. None of your fantasies have ever come true. They never will._ Redbeard’s soft fur leaves his hands and Molly’s coat gradually vanishes, and he’s left with his cold, hard knees and nothing else. The floor isn’t soft and flexible like it is in his imagination; it tastes like regret and anguish under his tightly woven socks.

 _Say it. Out loud._ The cold, harsh reality of his current situation had been in the back of his mind, but saying it to Molly hadn’t brought him any full realisation. _I’m always right... right? I always have been._ He has never been more unsure.

 _I am in love with John Watson._ He curles into a ball on the floor in defeat.

* * *

Mary finds out. It’s not a surprise, really. She’s smart, perhaps as smart as he is.

He opens the door one morning and she barges in, all tan cardigan and red lips. “We need to talk.”

“Mhm.” He lets her walk past and closes the door as slowly as possible.

She throws her hands in the air. “I can’t believe it took me this long to realise-”

“Mary.”

She ruffles her hair with one hand. “It was so bloody _obvious,_ why didn’t I make the connection befo-”

He grabs her shoulders and turns her around to face him. “Mary.”

Her eyes are sympathetic and resentful at the same time. “Mary, I promise you, this is a mistake. It always has been. I have no intention of doing anything to harm John.”

 _She knows that I have deliberately left her out of the equation._ “You and I are a lot alike, Sherlock.” Her eyes bore into his, but stare at nothing.

“No.” He lets go of her and puts a hand over his chest, stroking his bullet wound with one finger. “Because this happened out of selfishness.”

She starts to protest when he turns her around again so she faces the mirror. “This? The reason you’re here?” He starts to chuckle. “This is because of selflessness.”

 _My laughter erupts and it fills the entire room with waves of cynicism and bitterness._ Mary’s face falls, yielding a raw and utterly terrified expression. “Two different types of love,” she whispers.

“And which is the purest?"

She slowly faces him once again. _Speechless._ “I’m not going to lie to myself, or you.”

“I won’t interfere with your relationship. Because you know just as well as I do that he loves you more than he could ever love me.” _My eyes are pleading, watering although I try to focus all my energy on calming them._

Mary does not protest, she does not say anything at first. Sherlock feels like he has been cut open, like Mary is operating on his heart and must decide whether it should survive unshattered. “I’m sorry.”

 _You killed me. You’ve done it before and this is the only apology I receive._ “Know this, because your love for John is selfish and heavy: He loves you. And nothing could ever interfere. And that pains me more than anything. You always win. You always have. And you always will.” He takes a step towards her.

That seems like enough for her, and she says nothing as her feet creep out the door and close it shut. _She’s won. She always wins._

He blinks, taking in the entire scene of the flat, wondering why he bothers saying the words when he always loses. He’s always won by hiding his heart inside the metal cage under his chest.

_Why should I even try?_

* * *

_I am dancing with John, but I can’t see or hear him. A band plays in the background, and I can hear Janine’s cheers when he dips and kisses me. Molly flirts with Greg and giggles over her champagne while Mrs. Hudson brags about how she’s our landlady to Anderson. Mary is nowhere in sight._

_I dance alone, I am alone, although I feel all of my loved ones around me. Mycroft leans on his umbrella and gives me an approving nod and a hint of a smile._

_Everyone starts to vanish as I twirl my way through the crowd, and eventually I am by myself while a white haze starts to surround me and John’s image flicks in front of me. It is only me and him, John and I. He chuckles and kisses me and I feel my heart explode out of my metal chest, and I am somehow laughing while it happens. I pull him in closer, nuzzling my face into his neck._

_I do not need to grip him any tighter because I know that he’s there, that he always will be._

Mrs. Hudson steps into the flat and then quickly rushes out when she sees Sherlock dancing alone, talking and laughing to himself.

It is the happiest she has seen him in months.

* * *

_I often talk to myself when I’m alone._

He does. He always does.


End file.
